


loving is fine (if it's not in your mind)

by bogunicorn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Amputee Inquisitor, Angst, BDSM, BDSM contract, Dark, Dom Solas (Dragon Age), Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Mental Health Issues, Modern Thedas, Past Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Past Male Surana/Female Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Club, Subspace, professor solas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogunicorn/pseuds/bogunicorn
Summary: (DISCONTINUED)There’s something missing in Solas. Thayet feels it somewhere in her chest, in a piece of her that mimics it. Gone are the light, teasing touches; he touches her now as if he’s anchoring her to the ground, finding the neglected parts of her with his fingers and holding onto them so tight that the ache reminds her that they exist. If she was made of smoke, he would still find a way to hold it in his hands, keep it from drifting.The intimacy of it is overwhelming.I would take up space for you, it says.I would make my home here.LOVING IS FINE is a Modern Thedas Solavelyan BDSM AU. Chapters with explicit smut have an * at the end of the chapter title and have individual content warnings in the notes if you just want to skip to those. Updates semi-regularly.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Solas/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 31





	1. NO KINGDOM TO COME

**Author's Note:**

> Beep beep, motherfuckers, it’s time to hop in the BDSM drama car. When I say drama, I mean drama-drama. Content warnings will be in the pre-chapter notes of every update, but assume that every single chapter has a warning for PTSD, grief, and addiction/substance abuse, just to be safe. This first chapter has all those and also, I guess, Trevelyan doesn’t use a seatbelt. It’s mostly about friendship and setup in chapter one, my dudes.
> 
> I wrote the first 4 chapters all together and will write the 5th soon. Any chapter with explicit sex will have an * next to the title, so if you want to skip to the dirty-dirty, you can. Solas and Thayet will eventually establish a sex contract (hence the tag), but that will likely be in chapter 5 or 6 depending on those turn out. It’s coming, I promise!
> 
> I didn’t tag for this because it isn’t an active part of the story just yet, but Thayet herself is polyamorous and bisexual, and the series will likely feature f/f sex scenes, open relationships, threesomes, and a possible triad later down the line. I’m adding tags as I go along, though, and I don’t want anyone to tune into the story expecting an open relationship/triad if it isn’t there yet.
> 
> Also, you know, I’m a big big nerd and all my titles are from song lyrics. I’ll link to the songs at the bottom of the chapters, but to start, here the title song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLhYswDBrGQ&list=RDNLhYswDBrGQ&start_radio=1

From the sky, Kirkwall is a patchwork city. Thayet has seen enough maps to make guesses about which part is which; the massive bronze Twins of Kirkwall are visible even from the plane, and so the big brown area the channel leads to must be the docks, still old-fashioned and mostly carved directly from the stone. The whole city is like that, rising right out of the rock, the Hightown skyscrapers like crystals growing out of a cavern wall. The bright, underpopulated swaths of green must be the Gardens, the section of Kirkwall where all the estates are clustered together, well out of reach of the poorer parts.

The rest is harder, but she thinks she can pick out the colorful market district in Lowtown, a glimpse of the massive tree in the old alienage, the dark stone apartments in Darktown. The rest is all a blur. She read in a magazine once that Kirkwall had all been built piecemeal on fault lines and mining tunnels, that only dwarves have the stone-sense to make it from one end of the city to another without getting hopelessly lost. People had wandered right into the sea before GPS.

It’s a place to get lost in. There are much worse places to be.

Stannard International is a _maze_.

Thayet looks like shit. She kind of feels like shit. She’s sweaty, she hasn’t slept, she’s strung out from the flight. It was _cold_ in Denerim when she’d left, and the early-summer Free Marcher humidity is like a bucket of water dumped over her head, immediately making her loose sweater _itchy_. She’d been so pleased with herself and the glamorous image of walking out of the airport, aesthetically disheveled in sunglasses and toting a giant cup of coffee, that she hadn’t taken the plane ride itself into consideration. That sleep deprived college student look — capri style yoga pants, cute pink sneakers, an artfully big sweater that falls to her thighs, a low braid to make it easier to rest her head on the plane — had been cute twelve hours ago, though.

Instead, the reality: wandering around SI like an idiot, reading and rereading signs until she starts to wonder what’s more important, her luggage or finding somewhere to pee. She decides to duck into a bathroom. She does her business, emerges to wash her hands and her face, and nearly rips her sweater getting it off. She stuffs it into her carry-on and forces the zipper shut with such bitter ferocity that she’s afraid to open it again. The small duffel bag bounces, overstuffed, against her hip while she sets out again for the baggage claim.

The heat outside is worse, and she’s pretty sure that her tank top is clinging so hard to her bra she might as well take that off too, but none of that matters.

What matters is Dorian Pavus and The Iron Bull.

Bull is impossible to miss. There are a lot of Qunari in Kirkwall these days, and he isn’t the only one at Arrivals, but he still stands out. It’s the horns, the geometric tattoos, the eyepatch, but even without any of that, Thayet would know him anywhere. When he spots her, his voice booms over the crowd.

“Boss! You made it alive!” 

“Bull! I’m not dead!”

Bull hauls her up into a crushing hug that leaves her feet dangling a foot and a half off the ground. He’s solid as a rock, and Thayet clings tight, smiling so hard her face hurts.

When he sets her down, Dorian is waiting, having dragged himself out of the car. There’s never been so decadently dramatic a person as Dorian Pavus. He wears layers of designer clothes no matter the heat, he always smells _amazing_ , he spends more time on his makeup than Thayet does (which is saying something), he refuses to leave the house with so much as a hair out of place, and he’s determined to bring the curled, waxed mustache back into fashion. If he leaves the house without looking like the cover of a Tevinter fashion magazine, it’s because he’s slinking to the convenience store for wine and cigarettes and nothing else.

Today, he’s also wearing fashionably large sunglasses, and he makes a show of sighing in exaggerated concern. “My dear. My darling. You look _dreadful_. What did they do on that plane, host a hot yoga class? I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with you, you poor thing.”

“Oh, so if I hugged you, you might combust with shame, is that it?” Thayet grins and pulls him in for a sweaty hug, pressing an obnoxiously noisy kiss to his cheek.

Dorian squirms with an obvious _ugh_ , but when he works his way out of her grip, he comes right back into it. He cradles her face in his hands, the metal rings on his fingers cool against her cheek. He must have been holding them in front of the AC in the car. “I missed this face.” He punctuates the sentiment by returning her kiss, pressing it to her opposite cheek.

“I missed you, too, Dorian.”

“Of course you did. Your life has been dreadfully empty without me.”

By then Bull has loaded her luggage into the back of the car, a custom purple convertible with the top down. It’s Dorian’s car, a veritable relic from the days when _any_ of them were in contact with their families.

Bull drives, Dorian takes shotgun, and Thayet drops herself into the backseat lengthwise. If she doesn’t stretch out, the cramping in her legs might kill her. It’s not legal, but most cops don’t bother pulling them over when Bull drives. It’s not worth the effort. Bull drapes his free hand over the back of the seats to wrap his arm around Dorian, his reach long enough to do so comfortably. 

She’s known them for years, since before the Blight started, before her boyfriend died. They’d all been living in Ostwick, Thayet with her boyfriend, Dorian for some Circle internship, Bull for work. Thayet had met Dorian first through a friend-of-a-friend, and Bull second, at a brand new kink club that had called itself _Haven_ and caught her attention on a fetish site message board.

At the time, she never would have thought that the one-off scene she’d done as a Domme for Iron Bull would have been the beginning of her closest friendships. Bull and Dorian had met through her not long after that, and the rest would always be history.

Thayet could live in this moment forever, and for a few minutes she pretends that she will: the bright blue sky, the backlit silhouettes in the front seat, the good-natured bickering over what to put on the radio, a painfully obscure indie singer or the heavy metal Bull’s been getting into lately.

Bull breaks her out of her daydreams.

"You ready to see the new place? Dorian decorated your room already, hope you don't mind."

"I made it more welcoming!" Dorian insists. "You'll love it and you'll thank me."

Thayet chuckles, reaching up to fondly scratch Dorian's shoulder. "It's fine, I trust you. It'll be an improvement. I'm so done traveling today, I just want to get home, change clothes, and get my arm off."

"It need a tune up, Boss?" Bull asks. The nickname is just as affectionate and familiar as Dorian's _my darling_. "We know a girl uptown who's good with that stuff."

Thayet examines her left hand, blocking out the sun with it. Her arm's been gone below the elbow for years, lost in the line of duty before she’d left the Order a lifetime ago. The beautiful, delicately crafted prosthesis that's replaced it makes elegant whirring sounds when she flexes her fingers. She can't quite feel, but the magic woven into the metal gives her fine control, and on her best days she can almost perceive things brushing over it, like having a limb that's mostly asleep.

 _His_ name is on it, more permanent than a tattoo, etched among the decorative silver patterns on the inside of her arm near the elbow. _A. Surana,_ pretty script in a circular stamp, a craftsman's mark.

Thayet swallows down the memory.

"It's fine for now, but sometime in the next month I should have it looked at." She drops her arm back onto her belly. "Just in case. They didn't have a machinist at Sanctuary, but it isn't making any strange clicking noises, so it's probably fine for now."

Dorian half turns to look at her. He's good about not giving her _pity_ , but that flicker of a moment when he decides between doting softness and glib distraction is painful to watch. Today he picks softness. "If you're _sure_. It's no trouble. I can call for you."

"I'm sure. If it hurts, I'll tell you. I promise."

Bull and Dorian had rented the apartment largely without Thayet’s input. When they had found it, she hadn’t been very good with visitors, though Dorian had flown down to Denerim to visit her anyway. He had gone to the trouble of printing out the website’s photos and description for her, bringing them in a comically professional manila envelope, like a bundle of crime scene pictures. She had picked through them with perpetually trembling fingers, trying and failing to mentally piece together the layout of the three-bedroom, two-bath Lowtown flat. 

Dorian had eventually taken her hand and squeezed it tight, letting her rest her head on the table while he made up wild, ridiculous rumors about their future neighbors for the rest of the visit. She would have agreed to live in a dumpster with him, anyway.

As a result, she doesn’t recognize it when they pull up. The building is an old-fashioned brownstone, three apartments across and three apartments high, a shiny new fire escape crawling up the side. They’ve had the good fortune to snag the floor level apartment at the end.

They have a pair of parking spaces in the lot, where Dorian’s sleek purple car looks tiny next to Bull’s giant SUV. Bull picks up her bags before she can insist on carrying them, and her luggage — a carry on, one medium and one large suitcase — dwarfed in his hands.

It’s all she has. There was no furniture to move in, though Thayet had given them her disability and pension checks while she’d been in Sanctuary to buy whatever they wanted before she showed up. Bull in particular had been stubborn about not giving her numbers. She doesn’t know what they spent on moving in. She doesn’t even know what rent is here, though she’d been assured that her half was less than her monthly stipend. (It can’t be _that high_ , it’s a big place but it’s in an iffy part of Lowtown.)

She makes a mental note to ask about that.

“This is the foyer,” Dorian says as he leads the way in, gesturing as if it’s some wide, grand entrance hall. (It is, of course, just a little foyer with a closet, a shoe rack, and a little wall mirror. It’s wide enough that Bull can comfortably move around.) He waits for her to kick off her sneakers before leading them into the living room. “And the parlor, of course, for all our visiting needs.”

He goes on like that from room to room. The apartment is fully decorated; Dorian is a _collector_ , a connoisseur of eclectic, strange, and gothic things, as long as they’re beautiful. The Iron Bull barely owns anything at all, and so their home looks like Dorian’s personal dollhouse. It’s a sensibility he shares with Thayet, who likes the comfort of being surrounded with visual interest and artistry. He gives a tour as if it’s the Winter Palace, even presenting the laundry nook with a flourish (though she suspects he’s never stood in there for more than five minutes until now).

The third bedroom has been turned into a study, mostly for Dorian so he isn’t doing magic in the living room. His and Bull’s own bedroom is predictably decadent, the centerpiece of it a massive custom king with a wrought iron frame.

And then, hers. Thayet opens the door and almost bursts into tears.

Dorian’s taken care with it. He’s made it less macabre but no less populated with comforting decoration: more feminine, more floral, sunset colors dominated by a soft, warm purple tone. The curtains are delicate vintage lace, the vanity already populated by empty little organizational boxes for her makeup, a brand new set of brushes with shiny silver handles and soft, fat beauty blenders lined up in a row. The closet is technically a walk in, but it’s small, and beside the sliding door is a heavy, solid wood armoire, doors open and waiting to be filled with clothes. 

The king size four-poster is overflowing with a smattering of vintage pillows that must have taken Dorian at least a couple of weeks to find, and sitting in the middle is a chubby stuffed nug that Bull’s partner Krem must have made for her. There are fresh flowers in the windowsill, vintage perfume bottles lined up on the wall, empty and reflecting the light.

It’s a far cry from the plain room at the Sanctuary that she’d shared with three other people these past months. If the effort wasn’t making her cry, the idea of actual _privacy_ definitely is.

She wipes at her eyes before the tears really well up. 

“ _Dorian_. This is too much.” She wanders inside and brushes her fingers over the sleek wooden vanity. “Where did you get this from? Tell me you didn’t buy it new.”

(It’s foolish to concentrate on money. Five years ago the idea of _worrying about money_ would never have occurred to her, but neither Dorian nor Thayet is in contact with their families anymore. Dorian doesn’t have the cash to burn that he had when they’d met, especially not _now_.)

“I didn’t,” Dorian insists, taking a seat on her bed and crossing his legs. Bull’s already been in here, leaving the suitcases leaning against the footboard. “Bull made that.”

“Bull _made_ it?” Here come the tears again. Thayet pinches her nose to hold them back.

“Oh, yes. Especially since moving, he’s been restless. He’s cycled through some truly _dreadful_ hobbies since you’ve been away—-” Like she was on vacation, like she was sunbathing in Rivain the whole time. “---and picked up woodworking out of the blue a month ago. Our neighbors _hated_ it, but you know how he is. A man possessed.”

A pause.

“Well, let’s not put it that way in front of him, but you know what I mean.” Dorian gestures, brushing away the faux pas. “He built in all sorts of secret little compartments, he’s very proud. He built the wardrobe, too, when I told him that closet is not _nearly_ big enough.”

Thayet drops herself onto the bed, suddenly numb between the ears except for the sound of her own heartbeat. She’d been emotional enough before, but it happens at the drop of a hat now. Taking a deep breath, she covers her face with both hands.

“ _Thank you_. I’ll pay you back, you definitely spent more than I gave you, this is a _lot_ —-”

“Thayet.” Dorian wraps an arm around her, gripping her shoulders in both hands and giving her a short, firm shake, just to center her. “Stop. You know how I loathe dramatics.”

Tears are creeping down her cheeks, but she _laughs._ She laughs so hard her stomach hurt, until she’s too overwhelmed to cry, until Dorian has to remind her to _breathe_.

Everything is going to be fine.

At 2am, it is not fine.

Thayet wakes up mid panic attack, jarred out of an obscenely vivid dream that she can’t recall. Her skin aches and itches, and she just barely manages to drag herself into the bathroom before vomiting into the sink. It feels like there are tiny insects crawling through her veins, every single one hungry for the same thing, attacking every vital part of her when they don’t find any of it.

She stays like that for at least an hour, bent over and heaving until it’s dry. Her sponsor had warned her it might take another six months for the really severe symptoms to stop if she’s fortunate, years if she’s not, and that the nightmares were likely to stay with her forever. _You would be better off trying to quit heroin_ , he’d told her once, walking circles around Sanctuary in the middle of the night and chattering to keep her mind busy. _But you’ll make it. I did._

His voice is the easiest one to conjure up now, almost hand-in-hand with the episodes. He had warned her that the first few away from Sanctuary would be the most difficult, now that she’d gotten used to him being there twenty-four/seven, but she had to at least _try_ before she called him. Cullen Rutherford had a handsome voice, well suited to counseling, the sort of voice that would have been like a warm hand between her legs in a better situation.

She leaves the light off when she rinses the sink and her mouth, blindly feeling for her toothbrush and nearly knocking it off the counter. It’s better to struggle than risk seeing herself in the mirror right now. 

It’s no use going back to bed until the jitters truly pass. Thayet shuffles back to her bedroom for her slippers and her bathrobe, feeling for her phone on her nightstand for the flashlight. She checks the time: 3:14am. It’s far too late to wake anyone, though Bull and Dorian wouldn’t admit to holding it against her if she did.

Using the flashlight to guide her, Thayet picks her way through the unfamiliar apartment, looking for the door. She could use some air. She gets lost — twice — and the second time she winds up in the kitchen and swipes Dorian’s cigarettes just for good measure. 

When she finally finds the back door and the patio, she’s nearly blinded by the nearby street lamp. It’s quiet out here, the witching hour on a street that rarely hears silence. There’s a little patio table with a trio of chairs, though she can’t imagine that Bull actually fits in any of them.

She’s seated with a cigarette (a long menthol with a glamorous sounding Orlesian name) before she realizes she doesn’t have a light. By then it’s already in her mouth, and it feels like an imposition to take it out, smelling the minty tobacco without actually smoking it.

Thayet used to be so attached to her phone. She’s always been in constant contact with a large circle of friends, most of whom don’t realize that she’s out of Sanctuary. Rehab didn’t allow her to keep her phone, just a short list of approved phone numbers she could call when it was her turn on an old corded thing, and it had broken her of her habits. Hers has been dead for months now; she’d had to plug it in once she got settled in the apartment.

So now, she finally looks at it. The explosion of notifications had scared her away from the idea when she’d first turned it on, but it’s better than sitting and moping over an unlit cigarette. There are dozens of texts, so many social media notifications that they’ve all tapped out at 99.

She deletes most of the friend requests except for one, skimming the comments just to say that she did. A smattering of them are sweet posts on her wall (“Come back soon, we miss you!”, “Vacation in Nevarra, wish you were here, miss you!”), but most are just junk, just likes or oblivious comments on old pictures. She considers just deleting the apps; she’s barely opened them in a year, anyway, rehab or no rehab.

The texts are, predictably, mostly junk. Offers from her phone carrier, a reminder from her old hair salon, obvious spam. Some are weirdly oblivious texts; it hadn’t been a secret when Thayet had gone away or _where_ she was going, but some people just hadn’t gotten the message, apparently.

She’ll deal with the ones she might want to answer later. It’s already too overwhelming just deleting stuff without thought. Scrolling idly through the long list of messages, she promises she’ll send out a mass text in the morning telling people that she’s home, in Kirkwall now, and safe.

The screen moves too fast for her to stop it before it changes to old texts, and her stomach twists. She’s usually diligent about cleaning out her phone and had cleared everything before handing it in at Sanctuary, but she’d kept a single text thread. All the bright, unread texts loom over that single name at the very bottom of the screen.

There are photos in that thread, sweet little things that had been sent with no expectation of a reply, soft admissions of guilt or fear or longing. Thayet’s hand is already shaky, unsure as her thumb hovers over his name. _Surana, A—-_

“Hey, Boss.”

Thayet jumps, clutching her phone to her chest and nearly out of her seat until Bull’s massive hand rests gently on her shoulder. She breathes a sigh of relief when she looks up, even though his face is mostly shadowed.

“ _Hey_.”

“Sorry for scaring you. Didn’t think I was that quiet.”

“It’s all right. I needed the distraction anyway.” Thayet stashes her phone away in her robe pocket, snuggled up with the stolen cigarettes.

Bull sits across from her. He does actually fit into the chair, though just barely — and without her asking, he offers her a lighter. Dorian’s, obviously, from the fancy little pattern on the side. She fumbles with it for a moment, her hand still shaking, and Bull gives her a solid minute of struggle before reaching over to take it back again. Thayet lets out a resigned little sigh and patiently waits for a light.

The nicotine hits her and takes the edge off of her shaking. She’d never been a smoker before this, never done anything other than lyrium. No high could really compare.

They should really put that on the recruitment posters. _Join the Templars, you’ll never try crack._

Bull lets her sit in silence for a long, vital drag. She leans back, boneless, propping her elbow against the arm of the chair. There’s an ashtray in arm’s length, sitting on the railing of the patio, a pristine and shiny little bowl that looks like stained glass. It feels almost wrong to get it dirty.

“You can’t sleep either…?” She flicks ash into the bowl.

“Nah, I sleep all right. I heard you get up.”

Thayet winces. “You don’t need to get up every time you hear me do it. You’ll never sleep.”

Bull shrugs. He’s in shorts and nothing else; Bull has a love-hate relationship with shirts in general, and he sleeps naked when he can get away with it (which is almost always). He’s even left his eye patch and his leg brace in the bedroom. She must have been engrossed in her phone, if she didn’t hear the heavy sound of his limp against the hardwood floor.

“You can give it a week before that Don’t Take Care of Me shit settles in, all right?”

“I was telling Dorian, you did too much.” Thayet takes another drag, speaks through the smoke. “I _appreciate_ it, but please don’t think you have to—-”

“What did I _just say_?” Bull purses his lips, staring her down until she slumps a little. 

“I don’t want to put you out,” she eventually says, quiet but stubborn. 

“Tell you what, Boss: I’m going to buy a spray bottle and spritz you like a cat every time you say shit like that.”

Thayet snorts, half covering it with her hand. "Yeah, all right." She flicks ash off her cigarette, watching the light pass through the ashtray and throw tiny little rainbows onto the railing.

"Did you and Dorian move in together just because of me? You're obviously happy together, but…"

She sees Bull relax, just a little bit. For such a big, loud man, he's surprisingly good at masking his real emotions. Thayet has an advantage that most people don't, but she still has to pay close attention to truly read him.

"Nah. You know Dorian. You just gave him an excuse." Bull shifts in his seat, stretching out his left leg. “Last couple months have been nice. He’s neurotic, but he’s sweet. We’re still settling in.”

“Do you feel more pressured to make it work, now that you’re in a new city together, basically alone?” Thayet watches him, taking a thoughtful drag, satisfied when Bull quirks his mouth in genuine thought.

“No. Think Dorian does sometimes, though. But I’ve got people to go back to. Should be easier with you around now; couldn’t pry you two apart with the jaws of life.” His laughter is a low, easy rumble that she feels more in her chest than her ears.

"Are you happy, Bull?"

"Yeah, Boss."

" _Good._ "

The jitters are still there, unwelcome and rankling at the distraction. They rush into the lull in the conversation, putting such a tremor in her hands (both of them, even the one that's _not fucking there_ ) that Thayet grunts in discomfort. She barely manages to set her cigarette, half gone and still trailing smoke, onto the lip of the ashtray.

Bull's hand on her shoulder is the grounding she needs. Thayet grips it hard, pressing her forehead against his arm. The shaking is settling into her chest, like her heart is trying to escape from the unwelcome shuddering.

"What do you need?"

"Just talk to me," she says. "This passes, just give me something to listen to. Like… uh---"

Bull readily cuts her off, adopting a calm, conversational tone when he says, "Chargers are opening a new office in Kirkwall. Krem's gonna leave Stitches in charge in Ostwick. He's flying out here in a couple weeks. His new place won't let him move in until the first, though, so he'll crash with us. I got a list of shit to do before then…"

He goes on like that, rambling off whatever stray detail comes to mind. About Krem. About the office. About the weather. It doesn't matter. Thayet concentrates on the sounds, not the words, squeezing her eyes shut and letting Bull's voice drown out the rest.


	2. SLIPPING THROUGH MY HANDS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has a surprise for Thayet. Thayet has a mourning ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for GRIEF. Grief in this chapter. Oof.

The first couple weeks away from Sanctuary are… hard.

Bull and Dorian are as sturdy under her feet as hard earth. They’re kind, they’re supportive, and they’ve made it very clear that they don’t care when or _if_ she gets a job. She has a pension coming in along with her disability checks, hardly enough to make her rich but more than enough to cover living expenses. 

They still won’t tell her what her part of rent is or what they spent on her room. On her third day home, Dorian cajoles her into downloading a money transfer app under the guise of sending her down the street for cigarettes and transfers her _far too much_. A few thousand too much, actually, and the ensuing argument is worse for how much both of them just need a smoke. Dorian had stubbornly refused to touch anything she’d sent him during the move.

The fight ends with Iron Bull mediating a terse negotiation: Dorian won’t even take rent if she shoves it down his throat, but he agrees to let her pay for groceries (sometimes) and utilities (always). They both leave feeling mildly insulted and don’t speak for the rest of the day.

Other than that, the days are a blur. Thayet is bored of being inside almost immediately. She joins a gym in walking distance, she looks up parks and kitschy tourist things to do. Bull takes a day off and the three of them do nothing but wander around the aquarium in Hightown. (Dorian complains about the inherently ridiculous nature of fish, talking almost constantly except when they stop for lunch. It keeps the soft quiet of the building from creeping into her chest, and she appreciates it.)

She calls Cullen every two or three days to check in, hesitating to do more than that. There’s an appointment waiting for her with a therapist next week, but she’s decided against a Templar support group, too wary of commiserating with people still taking their philters. He’s kind and sympathetic, because of course he is, passing along tips and suggestions and listening to her complain about struggling to sleep.

It’s after one of those calls that Thayet tosses her phone onto the coffee table and flops haphazardly onto the couch. From his reading spot in Bull’s massive armchair, Dorian clicks his tongue.

“What happened?”

“I need to get laid,” she says bluntly. “I can’t keep talking to Cullen if no one is fucking me.”

Dorian laughs, pressing his book to his chest. It’s some thick, historical novel full of murder and intirigue. He’s been trying to convince her to read it, but she has too much restless energy to get into it. “Oh, you poor thing. It’s a shame they didn’t think of that before setting you up with the sexy counselor.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Thayet grabs one of the velvety throw pillows and launches it at his, missing by a wide margin. It only makes him laugh more. “You have Bull. I’m so desperate I masturbated to the sound of the washer thumping against the wall yesterday.”

“Is _that_ what you were doing? Here I thought I was very nicely keeping it quiet for your nap.” Dorian marks his place in his book and sets it aside. “I’m glad you actually _want_ to sleep with someone, though. That’s progress, is it not?”

“Ugh. Don’t.” Thayet covers her face with both arms. “Please don’t congratulate me for being horny. If I hear a single person say to me _‘it’s so great you’re getting back out there, you know, after what happened’_ , I’ll puke on their shoes.”

Dorian is quiet, so much so that Thayet peeks out from under her arms. His expression is awkward, mouth half-open like those exact words are stuck in his teeth. She winces internally; she could stand to be less prickly, at least with _Dorian_. As much as she loathes the “war widow” sympathy and the ways people talk about what happened, Thayet won’t exactly say it out loud, either.

Thayet _sighs_. “All right, maybe that’s too harsh. And, anyway, he and I weren’t even monogamous.” She tastes _his_ name on the back of her tongue, like bile, and swallows it down. 

“But you still haven’t slept with anyone since he died,” Dorian says, a Devil’s advocate, if a gentle one.

“I mean…” She sits up, resting on her hands. “That’s not the point. The _point is_ , I’ve never gone this long without sex. If I don’t find an outlet, I’m just going to fuck the next person who’s nice to me in the grocery store.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Maker, don’t do _that_. I won’t have random grocery people wandering around in here. I have a better idea. A surprise, if you will, that I’ve been saving for you.”

“Oh?” Thayet sits up properly now. A surprise from Dorian could be pretty much anything; they’re so close that what boundaries sit between them are fuzzy. She still gets excited about presents the way she did at Wintersend when she was six.

“Do you remember Vivienne?”

“Madame de Fer? Maker, yes.” Just her name sends a shiver down Thayet’s spine.

 _Madame de Fer_ had been the first professional Dominatrix Thayet had ever been to. She’d played around with kink before with her partners, it was an easy hole to fall into when she already wasn’t monogamous. But Vivienne had been the first person she’d ever _paid_ for Domination.

Thayet had found her after her arm had healed. She’d been looking for some catharsis, some sense of self control, some way to connect with her body after such a significant change, and it had been a Domme or a hypnotist. (Thayet had been then — and was still, a little — something of a hippie in that respect.) Madame de Fer didn’t offer sexual services, but she did everything short of it, and for the correct, ridiculously large sum of money, would take on 24/7 submissives for brief stints.

Thayet had lived with her for a month. Between disciplinary beatings and mandatory affirmations, Vivienne had helped her acclimate to civilian life without having to rely on her parents. They’d become real friends afterward. People in Thayet’s orbit tended to meet each other eventually, and Vivienne and Dorian were no exception.

“Well,” says Dorian, distracting her from the memory. “I had lunch with her before we left Ostwick and she referred us to a sex club on the east side called _The Inquisition_.” He says it with a wistful reverence. The drama of the name appeals to him, and Thayet can’t disagree. “Membership and referral only. It’s like a party in Minrathous; it’s very decadent, very indulgent. Less blood magic, of course, but that only makes it better. It’s a sea of gorgeous, mostly naked people doing depraved things right out in public. It’s an experience.

“And they have private rooms, of course,” he adds. “Some that you can rent ahead of time. Bull and I go there about once a week.” He sounds too deliberately glib to actually _be_ glib. Thayet might still be the only person he’s comfortable admitting that to aloud, at least outside of a club.

Thayet frowns after giving it a moment of thought. “ _Do_ you?”

Dorian shrugs apologetically. “Not since you’ve been home. We didn’t want you to feel…”

“Jealous?” Thayet makes a frustrated noise. “Now I _definitely_ need to go just to make you stop acting like that. You can take the kid gloves off a little bit, Dorian.”

“I apologize if my first thought when you came home wasn’t taking you to an orgy.”

“I accept your apology.” 

He’s only half apologizing, and she’s only half sarcastic about accepting it.

Bickering aside, it _is_ the perfect gift. 

There had been a strict policy against sexual contact in Sanctuary. It was a matter of safety for everyone, and a safeguard against ambiguous consent. There’s always a period of withdrawal where they’re achingly, horribly touch sensitive, and it isn’t unusual for that to mean involuntary orgasms along with the other pains and complications. She still feels that way sometimes, so raw that everything hurts and she comes so fast it can barely be called pleasure, but at least she can manage it on her own now.

The end result is that no one has really _touched_ her since she had relapsed on lyrium. She had been one of the lucky ones, going into treatment before she had run out of things to sell to get more, but the end of the Blight had been the end of all of her relationships. They _hadn’t_ been monogamous, but she hadn’t been able to stomach seeing other people with her primary partner gone that way. The lyrium had been all encompassing, and taking too much had separated her so thoroughly from her own body that the idea of fucking had been as abstract and strange as trying to walk to the moon.

She’s far enough along in recovery for her sex drive to have returned with a _vengeance_. Her natural desire for attention only gets stronger when it’s sexual.

 _The Inquisition_ isn’t the first sex club she’s ever been to. She knows how to dress for it: sexy, yes, but practical for the situation. Thayet swaps her phone case for one with a wallet on the back, only transfers over her ID and her credit card with the lowest limit, some cash just in case. She picks a comfortable, high-waisted skirt, a loose cold shoulder that buttons down, a bra that hooks from the front, pretty underwear that breathes. Ankle boots with a thick heel, no tights or pantyhose.

She pulls her hair up into a practiced braided crown and keeps her makeup light. She hasn’t decided exactly what she _wants_ out of the night yet, but she always feels like it’s just a little rude to be leaving makeup smudges all over people she doesn’t know yet if she can help it. Her mascara is waterproof, her lipstick is so matte it might not come off until next week, and she uses as much setting spray as she can get away with.

Thayet is always a little nervous going into these things, but she always takes that to mean that she cares. People who swagger into a sex club arrogant and entitled are usually the worst people, and she’s gone down on enough of them to be jaded about it. This is the sort of unfamiliar she _likes_ , though, the allure of new people, new sights, new bodies.

Leaning back, Thayet picks at her hair until it’s perfect, then picks a little more. The only thing she’s certain of now is her appearance; she’s always been vain, but it’s not without reason. She’s attractive, her dark skin is clear, her lips are full, and she knows exactly which shades of eyeshadow make her honey-gold eyes look brightest. She’s heavy for her height because she’s muscular, and she’s proud of _that_ , too.

The issue, at least, isn’t whether or not someone will want to fuck her. It’s whether or not she’ll want to fuck them back. Being in the mindset gives her an irreplaceable thrill.

Thayet is ready to go before Dorian and Bull are. Iron Bull doesn’t dress up for these things, he would rather be mostly naked once they’re inside the club, but Dorian goes overboard and it takes him forever to fuss over his outfit. They would normally get ready together and let Bull do something else in the meantime, but Thayet needed the time alone.

She briefly listens for Bull and Dorian’s conversation in the next room over. When she’s convinced they’re too wrapped up in each other to eavesdrop on her, she gets up to find her phone. Thayet only checks her messages once a day, only likes to pay attention to it if someone is actively calling her, and it’s become easy to lose.

Finding it on top of her wardrobe, Thayet scrolls through her contacts with a rock in her stomach, slowing down when she gets to the _R_ s and stopping at the singular _S_.

Taking a deep breath, she dials his number.

She used to do this a lot right after he died, right up until she went to Sanctuary. He had already put most of his payments in her name so that she could manage things while he was deployed, including his phone.

The Grey Wardens had returned it, along with his other effects, in a heavy wooden box. She barely remembers the man who delivered it, a young Warden named Alistair, because when she remembers that day, all she remembers is the box. Velvet lined, solid wood, the Grey Warden griffon carved into the top. Inside had been his phone, his wallet, and his favorite shirt, bundled neatly in a plastic bag. Someone had written his name in thick marker. She’d been distracted by that at first, enough that it took her a moment to see that the bag was nestled up next to a simple metal urn.

She’d closed all of his other accounts, but she’d kept the phone open. They’d been on the same plan, so it was easy to just keep paying for it. In the month after his death, she had slowly deactivated or uninstalled almost everything on it, kept it on silent, never let it connect to WiFi. She never charges it, except to periodically open up the visual voicemail and clear it.

Three rings, and his voicemail message starts to play.

“ _This is Aeryk Surana. I’m deployed. I probably won’t call you back until after the Blight. If it’s important, call Thayet. If you don’t have her number, you’re out of luck._ ” He has ( _had_ ) a deep voice, the edges of it ragged, the lingering remains of a Dalish accent softening his _T_ s.

Thayet takes a deep breath.

“Hey, you. It’s been a while. They listened to all my phone calls at Sanctuary, but…” She smooths down her braid, careful not to dislodge it. “I’m out now. Bull and Dorian and I have a place in Kirkwal, and they’re keeping an eye on me, so you don’t have anything to worry about. We are… going out tonight. There’s some underground sex club that Vivienne recommended, so we’re taking Bull’s car, I’m paying for parking, and… I don’t know, hopefully someone there gets my attention.

“It won’t be you. Nobody’s _you_ , but I am really… _really_ horny, Aeryk, I _cannot_ keep living like this. I know you’d understand. I’m going to try not to think about you tonight. I don’t know if this is moving on, but it’s moving something. Someday I’ll even stop leaving you voicemails. Not today, though. I’ll probably call again soon. Miss you.”

She hangs up the phone, plucks a tissue from the box on the vanity, and gently dabs the tears from her eyes before they can start to fall. Then she takes another long breath and sets the phone aside. This morbid little ritual is the only thing she has yet to admit to anyone except the ghost left behind in the voicemail. She tells herself that being able to say his name at least in private is progress enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1A0G1d8Kzw


	3. IMAGINE BEING LOVED BY ME*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thayet meets Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for explicit but emotional sex, as well as grief. Also to a lesser extent D/s, spanking, and voyeurism, but not from the main couple.

If _The Inquisition_ was a candy store, Thayet would be pressing her face flat against the glass. And drooling a little, maybe.

She knew she missed places like this, but actually waiting to get in puts a new bounce in her step. Dorian and Bull have to get her in long enough for her to hand over her phone and her ID, as well as share a digital copy of her last STD test. (Taken in the last few weeks, thank the fucking Maker, if she’d had to wait to get those results back before getting into this adult amusement park she would have been _insufferable_.)

The main bar area is just that. Dim and lit primarily by the glowing trails of neon lights, it’s like stepping into a place where time never passes. The music has a low, thumping baseline that’s felt more than heard, appealing to some primal sixth sense of space. There’s a dance floor rimmed in lights, a bar area tucked amidst a smattering of tables, and a buffet full of fruit and little h’or d'oeuvres, perfect finger foods for people taking a break from energetic activities in another room.

Their cover fee gets them a drink at the bar each. Dorian and Bull are too keyed up to wait, and Thayet sends them on, watching them disappear down a corridor. She wants to drink and people watch a little first.

She’s always liked crowds. She likes the thrum of energy, likes the feeling of being overwhelmed with people. In the right mood (in her _current_ mood) she even likes the smell of sweat and must. It’s comparatively early in the evening, a little after ten, but they aren’t the first ones there. A trio of glittery twenty-somethings have taken mastery of the dance floor, getting dust on anyone who gets too close. A couple of women are huddled up together in a booth, feeding each other fruit. The bar is already host to a small crowd, and the steady line of people behind her promises a busy night.

There will inevitably be orgies in the back rooms that she can simply allow herself to be absorbed into, but there’s no reason to rush. The distance between herself and other people has felt impassible, a mile between her and her friends, a galaxy between her and strangers. It's tempting to jump directly into the deep, but there's a value in wading in, feeling the ocean creep up her legs as her feet sink into the sand.

The glittery dancers take her in almost immediately, submerging her in dust before the flood of bodies onto the dance floor threaten to drag her into the undertow. 

A tall, reedy elf with the broad shoulders of a model and the cropped blonde haircut of someone in a rush presses in close. She's one of the shiny ones, leaving dust on Thayet's skirt with her hips. She turns, and the elf’s hands are cradling her face, someone else’s weight is against her back, she kisses and tastes bright, sugary liquor. Her own hands reach out to touch, fingers dragging over warm bare skin, someone hard against her palm, someone else against her thigh. If it's drowning, she's breathing it in until her lungs are full to bursting. She's light-headed, too overwhelmed to feel anything but joy and hunger, craving salt. Only the threat of getting glitter in her teeth keeps her from licking it off of someone’s body.

It’s at the moment of freedom from the crowd that she lays eyes on him.

The thing about clubs like this, she knows, is that they don’t survive on shiny, energetic 20-somethings alone. She knows this one’s type the moment she sees him: unassuming, well-dressed without being showy. He looks serious. If she has to guess, she would put him in his forties, elves always look younger than they really are. Handsome, clean-shaven, mystery in the quirk of his mouth. Most white men look odd bald, she thinks, or it ages them, but the fine shape of his skull gives her the sudden urge to find the grooves of bone with her fingers while she pushes him between her legs.

He’s watching her, and for a moment she’s more aware of her own body than she has been in months. His gaze doesn’t waver even when he brings his drink to his lips. Whisky? It’s too cloudy to be straight whisky. 

He’s leaning against the bar. There’s enough space between him and the next person just for her. Thayet keeps her head up, turning her eyes away and concentrating on neon bar lights. 

She can feel him looking when she leans on the bar, stretching out her spine. He shifts out of the corner of her eye, sets his drink down on the sleek wood. It’s whisky, but she picks up the the sharpness of lemon and ginger, smoothed over with honey.

He waits, patiently, while she orders a silver bullet. Quiet. Expectant, curious, but not stoic. The attention skitters down her spine, warming her belly and mixing with the shot when she throws it back.

“So.” She glances over, her metal fingers tapping idly on the shot glass. She smiles when his attention flickers down to her hand, making a show of delicately fingering the rim. “Who are you here with?”

“The same person you’re here with.” His voice is soft without being quiet. He sounds Dalish, melodic, his long _E_ s running longer. Up close, she can see the slick patterns of stylized leaves in his soft green vest, iridescent in the low lights. Dressed up, but not overdoing it.

Thayet’s smile broadens. “That’s a shame. You look like your taste in women is as good as mine.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “No comment about my taste in men as well?”

“Is that relevant right now?”

The once-over he gives her says that it very much is _not_. Thayet gently shifts her weight, hiding what would otherwise be a squirm of delight. She’s a visual person, hungry for the sight of another’s body, and she’s vain enough to favor lovers who share the proclivity. His gaze lingers on her hand, before dropping down over her chest and hips. He looks curious, the way a wolf looks curious while looking over a hill at a flock of sheep.

It’s been so fucking long since anyone has looked at her exactly like that. The rush between her legs presses her thighs together, and she wonders if he can smell her.

She waits until he speaks again, gently worrying her lip between her teeth. The silence runs long, but it only seems to be because he forgets to speak at all. He does eventually compose himself, returning his attention to her face.

“My name is Solas,” he says, as if reminding himself as well, “if there are to be introductions.”

“Thayet.”

“Thayet.” Solas repeats her name as if savoring it on his tongue. “What are you here for, Thayet?” Low, inquisitive, just a little academic. Like a new boss, or a university professor. Thayet checks another box off her list.

“ _Well_. I wasn’t entirely sure, but now I think I’m here for you.” Thayet’s never believed in holding her cards too close to her chest. It’s harder to play them that way, as far as she’s concerned. “The question is what _you’re_ doing here. I like you, and I’m very flexible. Euphemistically and otherwise.”

“I know very well what I’m here for,” he says, gently teasing in a way that makes her wish it came with his hand between her legs. “I’m curious to know your suspicions. You came to _me_ , after all.”

It’s a test. It’s _obviously_ a test. It should probably annoy her; he’s not so arrogant as to be obnoxious about it, but it’s a little slippery. It might put someone off who isn’t interested in chasing, or perhaps to test the waters of what people expect of him, letting him extract himself if he finds it offensive.

Thayet leans on the bar, giving his face a long, thoughtful look. He’s carefully neutral, he has a good listening face, but he could also just play an extraordinary hand of poker.

She’ll bite.

“All right. I think that… you like testing people.” When he makes a little face, she amends it to say, “Maybe ‘testing’ is the wrong word. I think you like poking at them to see what they’ll do. You like it more than taking the easy route, anyway.”

Thayet trails her fingers over his vest. The hint of the tag looks bright white and sharp. He isn’t wearing cologne, but he’s freshly shaved. The ice is nearly melted in his glass, more water than whiskey now. 

“You’re an attractive man,” she says. Not a question. “You aren’t in a rush, so you aren’t just here to fuck around with the first attractive person who comes near you. You probably would’ve finished that faster or ordered something smaller if you didn’t mean to wait and be picky. My guess is that you aren’t here for an orgy. Probably not even for group sex at all? Am I warm?”

Solas tips his head, mirroring her stance and leaning on the bar. “Keep going.”

“All right.” Thayet picks up his abandoned drink, swirls it to mix the water back in, and finishes it off. “You’re not wearing cologne.”

“Perhaps I have an allergy to it.”

“No you don’t,” she counters, and it startles a smile out of him. “I think you want to go home smelling like someone else, rather than the other way around. And you’re looking for someone who has a thing for authoritative men.” She tugs at his shirtsleeve, catching it between her first two fingers. “You’re not stupid or without style. This getup will attract two kinds of people. The question is which one you _want_ to attract.”

“And what is it you think I want to attract…?” 

Thayet shakes her head. Instead of answering, she nudges him with her good elbow. “No. Your turn. I came here for a drink. You were staring first. Which type of person do you think I am, that I’d come over here for you?”

Solas is thoughtfully quiet at first. He finally touches her, his fingers brushing over her bare shoulder, pausing to watch her reaction. It’s only after she nods that he feels along the line of her shirt, tracing the connection between her shoulder blades.

A thread of tension winds around her stomach, slowly tightening when Solas runs his fingers over her spine. Getting attention is always easy, keeping it is even easier, but this is the part where men lean into her and tell her their assumptions, which box they’ve put her in and how hard they intend to lock her into it. Whether they see her as a ball-breaking Dominatrix or a “natural” submissive (whatever they mean by that), no ambiguity or nuance required. Even the men she meets less familiar with kink or who won’t use those exact words find a way to express it.

Andraste probably isn’t listening, but she’s praying for this one. She would hate for Solas to ruin it now, and she lacks the patience to debate someone.

(This had been so much easier with Aeryk. She’s not thinking about him tonight, this is her _last thought about him tonight—-_ )

“I think,” he says, careful with his words, “that you like _authority_. The illusion of it, perhaps? But do you like submitting to it or dismantling it tonight, I wonder. —You certainly like to be looked at. You didn’t mean to linger at the bar, either. So you could leave quickly if I bored you? Or because you’re eager to take me into the back?”

Solas is so close she can feel his breath on her cheek. They’re about the same height. He teases the idea of brushing his hand down her back before dropping his touch altogether, tucking his hands behind his back instead. Their only contact is the idea of a kiss. She doesn’t dare move.

“What was your immediate thought when you stepped out of the crowd and saw me?” His voice is so _soft_. It expects an answer, but doesn’t pull her to any specific one.

Thayet swallows hard. “I wanted you to eat me out,” she says, her voice equally low.

She feels him smile. “What else?”

She bites back her own smile. Her feet are on the very edge of the slippery slope, and this exact place — moments before getting something she’s ached for — always makes her grin too much in mood-breaking excitement.

“I want you to spank me.” She fails at keeping the smile off of her mouth, but she manages to make it crooked, hopefully charming. 

“A- _ha_. There we are.” 

Without pulling back, Solas offers his hand, holding it in her eyeline so she doesn’t have to move. When she slides her own hand into his touch (Maker, he has beautiful hands, long and warm), he gives her a gentle, reassuring squeeze. It seems as much for him as for her; she feels the energy of him, the familiar and involuntary hum of magic that comes with excitement. Other people might not know to feel for it, but Thayet does.

If he doesn’t mention being a mage, she promises herself, she won’t mention being an ex-Templar. It’s too complicated to explain.

Solas nuzzles her, dodging her attempt to turn her head and kiss by nuzzling her ear. “We’re both lucky tonight. We should speak in private, don’t you think?”

Solas has been here before, so he takes the lead. Thayet slips her fingers through his so they aren’t separated.

The back rooms are a series of winding hallways and hidden staircases, connecting a seemingly mismatched series of rooms. Some are tiny, no more than a closet big enough for two people. Others are large enough for a crowd, many of them hosting a smattering of couples and trios who want to watch strangers while fucking their own. 

At one point, they pass through a room with a stage. There are comfortable chairs full of onlookers, a few stripper poles for flavor, but the real centerpiece is the bondage bench on stage and the girl on it, bent over and strapped in. She squirms and moans while another woman works a truly intimidating dildo into her cunt.

Thayet pauses without meaning to, mesmerized by the angry red marks on the girl’s backside. She’s been beaten with something that leaves distinctive lines. A whip, maybe? A cane? —-The woman reaches down for something and brings up a riding crop, tapping between the girl’s legs when the dildo is halfway inside of her. The memory of the biting sharpness of a crop fills Thayet’s senses, a sense recollection that makes her thighs ache and her head swim.

“That’s what you like, is it?” Solas’s voice snaps her out of the memory by dropping a shudder down of her shoulders, his lips against her ear. “Who would you rather be…?” Other than his hand on hers, he maintains a stubborn distance. He doesn’t even let his body brush over hers by accident.

“The girl on the bench,” she breathes. “Usually.” Thayet _jumps_ when the woman strikes the back of the girl’s thigh, the high-pitched squeal sending a voyeuristic warmth into her stomach. 

“I’ll take note.” She feels him smile against her ear just before he kisses it. “You would be so beautiful that way. Pinned down, dripping wet, squealing for my cock while you endured such punishment.” Solas sighs, letting out his breath as if she’s wrapped a hand around him. “I might even let you suck it first.”

Thayet turns for an impulsive kiss. Solas casually dodges the gesture, much to her irritation. Instead, he brings her hand to his mouth to kiss her fingers.

“You’re trouble,” Thayet says, biting at her cheek to interrupt her smile. “ _Let me_ suck it. You’d be so lucky. Let’s keep moving.”

They duck out of the room as the girl on the bench has a harsh, screaming orgasm, to the reception of oddly subdued golf claps from the audience.

They find the first unoccupied, _private_ room and lock themselves inside. Thoughts of going slow evaporate as soon as they’re alone.

Solas still tastes like honey. She realizes, as his tongue slips into her mouth, that his restraint from earlier was just self preservation. They’re both manic, fumbling, the kiss an unspoken permission. If he’d kissed her any earlier — hell, if he’d just stood a little too close — they would have been kicked out for trying to fuck on the bar. 

There’s something missing in Solas. Thayet feels it somewhere in her chest, in a piece of her that mimics it. Gone are the light, teasing touches; he touches her now as if he’s anchoring her to the ground, finding the neglected parts of her with his fingers and holding onto them so tight that the ache reminds her that they exist. If she was made of smoke, he would still find a way to hold it in his hands, keep it from drifting.

Thayet will look back on this in the morning and not remember how they got from the door to the bed. She won’t remember who opened the condom, who took off which piece of clothing, whose hand went between whose legs first.

But she’ll remember being on top of him when she comes into his hand, squeezing so tight around his cock that she can feel every little twitch inside of her. The intimacy of it is overwhelming. _I would take up space for you_ , it says. _I would make my home here_.

Her brain is full of static and hunger when Solas pushes her onto her back. His heart thumps against her own chest when he comes, her hands on his back digging red lines into his skin. His weight makes her fantasize about a life lived between his ribs, behind his lungs, safe and dark and quiet.

It takes the both of them a solid minute to realize that she’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eCCtiK7KlSo


	4. RISING WITH THE MORNING TIDE*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thayet and Solas get vulnerable, and then they fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for explicit sex (obviously), a little grief talk, D/s dynamic, spanking, fingering, face-fucking, cunnilingus, and subspace.

Thayet cries in slow tears and long intakes of breath, her limbs too heavy to move, even to cover her face.

When Solas realizes it, he’s quick to climb off of her, and the sudden release of pressure from his weight moving off makes her sob. She blindly gropes to drag him back in. 

As a compromise, Solas wraps his arms back around her, cuddling up against her side. “Did I hurt you…?” He cradles her cheek, wiping at her tears with his thumb. “Speak to me. Please.”

Thayet shakes her head, finally wiping at her eyes. Solas’s touch is feather-light as if she’s made of paper, slipping underneath her shaking hands and clearing her tears from her face.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she says finally. Even her vocal chords are numb. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think…” She swallows hard. “I didn’t think I would have that reaction. I’m sorry. You’re lovely.”

He has that same look on his face from before, soft and carefully neutral, listening without judgment. His vest is lost somewhere, his button-down open. Such a strange intimacy, the sight of his bare chest framed by his shirt. He’s lean, not as soft as she expected, and there’s a freckle — one single freckle — under the left side of his collarbone.

She traces her metal fingers over his jaw, trailing over the sharp line from his ear to his chin. Solas leans into the touch, kisses her fingers, presses his mouth to her palm.

“Tell me what I did,” he reiterates, nuzzling her hand and letting her cradle his cheek.

“Nothing. I…” 

Thayet leans in, pressing a careful kiss to his mouth, ready to pull away. She sighs in relief when he returns it. The kiss lingers, until the anxiety seeps out of Solas’s body and the urge to weep subsides. Even when it breaks, her mouth stays close to his, kissing just his upper lip, pressing another to his chin.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. Aeryk isn’t supposed to be on her mind, but her mind is cloudy from grief and from coming. Solas hasn’t pulled away, hovering as if he’s waiting to take her words and swallow them himself, taking them where they can’t make her miserable. “You’re the first person I’ve been with since my boyfriend died. It’s been a year. I just meant to come here and forget, but I… maybe I just needed to get that out of my system. I didn’t mean to put it on someone else.”

“Grief is complicated. It does not care what time you give it,” he says gently. “It takes what it needs, and no less. I only wish I had known so I could take better care.”

"That's very sweet." Thayet swallows down a fresh round of tears. It feels as if she cries _constantly_ now, and the frequent impulse rattles her.

Solas squeezes the back of her neck before he sits up. "I'll get you something to drink."

While he climbs off the bed, Thayet sits up and _finally_ gets a look around. It's on the smaller side as rooms seem to go here, meant for three people at most. The bed is sizable enough, comfortable, with iron posts and a tiered headboard perfect for wrapping rope or cuffs around. There's a wide, comfortable looking chaise, and its counterpoint across the room is a black, padded sawhorse.

The counter built along the wall is shiny wood and mostly empty, except for what amounts to a little supply station nearest the door: a multi tiered storage unit holding a rainbow of condoms, a few different lubricants, baby wipes, towels, a couple pairs of medical scissors. Cleverly build into a cabinet is compact fridge full of water and sports drinks. There must be other things in the cabinets, too, but Solas just brings her a bottle of water when he comes back.

They’ve really done a poor job of undressing, haven’t they? Solas’s shoes and pants are missing, but he still has his socks on. Thayet hasn’t lost anything but her underwear and her shirt. After a drink, she finally takes off her boots and kicks them to the floor.

The silence gets to her only a minute after it starts. Coming down from the high of orgasm and the catharsis of crying, she’s hollowed out, empty, leaving room for the anxiety to slip back in. The sweat on her skin is drying and tacky. Lust has drained away, leaving only hunger behind to roll around in her quiet thoughts.

Solas touches her shoulder, tugging her back before she has the chance to get lost in the quiet.

“I didn’t mean—-,” she starts.

“Don’t apologize to me again.” The cut-off is kind but firm. A few seconds pass between them, threatening to become another slippery slope of quiet, before Solas adds, “This isn’t easy for me, either.”

“No…?” Thayet resettles to sit more comfortably, wrapping her arms around her legs, water bottle closed and held with two fingers under the cap. She rests her chin on her knee. She feels raw, even the soft fabric of her skirt against her chin is irritating, and she raises her head only long enough to let the skirt fall further down her thighs to get it away from her face.

Solas sits cross-legged, close without touching her, save for the hand that rests near her hip. Only the tips of his fingers brush over her skirt. “I don’t come here often. I didn’t _start_ coming until after my last relationship ended…” He takes in a steeling breath. “Uncomfortably.”

“Why come here, then? Why not just date?”

“I’m not ready,” he says simply. “I may never be. But I like this place. I like the atmosphere, the drama, the smell of sex and intrigue. Everyone here has something that drove them into a den of sexual deviance. I like watching them for a moment and imagining what must have done it.” 

“And you’re too good for that deviance yourself, I take it?” she asks, nudging him with her elbow.

“Oh, not at all.” He shrugs a little. “I’m rarely comfortable with submission, but I enjoy Dominance, even with relative strangers. I suppose _especially_ with them.” His touch ghosts up over her spine, the tips of his fingers touching the blunted points of her vertebrae. “Though I might have subbed for you if you had been looking for it. It’s difficult to say otherwise to…” He finally runs out of words, chuckling at himself. “Mm. You’re overwhelming.”

Thayet’s smile is slow and delighted, cheek resting on her knee while she watches him talk. She could listen to him for hours, she realizes. He could read from a dictionary and make it sound like philosophy. The cadence of his words is soft, flowing with the ease and conviction of the tide taking over a beach, and the hum of her aching is quieted.

“But you’d rather top.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Why?”

Solas’s fingers find the nap of her neck and linger over her hairline. “Because I like the idea of a person leaving me more settled and honest than when they came. There’s an envious beauty in watching someone submit so completely as to become more of themselves.”

Thayet fidgets in place, a surge of warmth in her belly. “Wow.”

His hand pauses. “Was that too much?”

“ _No_. But if you’re trying to convince me to fuck you again before I leave, you’re making a lot of progress.” She leans more into his touch until she’s tucked under his arm, letting her weight rest against his side. “You sound more like a service top than a Dom, by that admission.”

“Perhaps I’m simply trying to impress you by sounding more sensitive than I am,” he says, tightening his grip around her and giving her arm a squeeze. “I’m making it sound as if it’s not sexual. It is. Emphatically so. —-I’m talking far too much about myself.” Solas looks away from her, his mouth crooked with a self-deprecating laugh. “Why come here? If it’s been a year, this seems to be the deep end, is it not?”

Thayet takes another drink before capping the bottle of water and tossing it aside. It rolls to the edge of the bed, threatens to roll right off. “I’m very good at moderation,” she says plainly. “I went to clubs like this all the time before he died. We weren’t monogamous; I went even when he was away.”

“Away?”

“For work. Anyway, I… I don’t know, I’ve always been into kink. He and I had a pretty consistent D/s thing going on, but even when I was with other people, I subbed. It’s cathartic.” Thayet squirms closer, wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her metal fingers tucked into the waist of his boxers. She’s rewarded with a little shudder before she feels him relax again. “I’m fairly high strung, to be true about it. Subspace wipes that slate clean, blocks out the noise. I wanted something familiar.”

Solas feels his way over her shoulder and her neck, until his long, elegant fingers are working into her hair. His fingertips drag wonderfully over her scalp, using her braids to pin his hand close. “And we know you like pain.” An edge is creeping back into his voice that makes her teeth ache. “I’d like to give you some of what you want before we leave tonight. I’d like to take some of what _I_ want. Tell me not to, now, and I will let go and we can simply keep each other company instead.”

He tugs at her hair, and the sharpness in her scalp straightens out her spine. She’s soft now, she has a mind that can lead her body in either direction, submission or isolation. She could board herself up again, settle for conversation, go home with a hum in the back of her brain and the hollow grief left untreated in her chest.

He would let her go. She would hate him for it.

“I use traffic lights,” she says softly, meeting his eyes without challenging his grip to turn her head. “Red, yellow, green.”

“And now?”

“Green.”

His hands drag over her breasts once her bra is discarded, harsh and squeezing before he moves down the rest of her body. Thayet does as she’s told, standing still in the center of the room while Solas strips away the rest of her clothes. He’s quiet, borderline impersonal, the harshness of his touch standing in for his voice.

Solas drags her to the sawhorse by her hair, bracing his free hand on her hip while he bends her over. He keeps his grip on her until she’s settled, the black leather cushioning her hands and knees, the bench wide enough for her to settle on and forcing her thighs wide.

(Can he smell her? He must be able to. Her pussy is _wet_ , her inner thighs slick and, now, cold with their sudden exposure.)

For a moment the room is silent except for her breathing, lightly panting in anticipation. Solas squeezes her ass with both hands, in a way that suggests he’s facing away from her, seeing her only from the hips down. He spreads her cheeks, making a small _hmm_ until he takes one hand from her, moving it between her legs instead. He has that confident touch again, slipping his middle fingers past her labia and drawing a line on her skin from her clit to her entrance, sinking inside of her in one easy movement until his knuckles press at her hole.

Thayet gasps, her head involuntarily raising. Solas uses his free hand to push her back down, his thumb against her cheek when he presses her face firmly to the leather and then lets go.

“Feel how soft you are. You couldn’t wait to crawl up onto my cock, could you?” He presses _up_ , against the floor of her cunt, forcing the muscles to strain and ache. 

She swallows hard. “No.”

He uses his free hand to give her a quick smack on her ass, more noise than pain. A warning shot. Her cunt tightens around his fingers. “No, _sir_.”

“No, _sir_ ,” she echoes. “No, sir, I couldn’t wait.” She bites down hard on her lower lip. It’s too early, smiling might unravel the mood before it sets in.

“Mm. I didn’t think so.” Another smack, to the other cheek this time. “Did I give you permission to touch me…?” And another, harder this time, making her jump.

“ _No_ , sir. I’m sorry.”

And another. “What did I say about apologizing?” And _another_ , his strikes enough to shock but not enough to hurt. Not yet.

“Not to apologize, sir.”

Soothing her ass with a gentle touch, Solas uses the hand inside of her to fuck her, firm and slow. Her pussy makes soft, lewd noises, making a mess of him to the wrist. “I did. No apologies. You’ll answer my questions when I ask them. You will _touch_ only when I instruct you to. Now.” He pulls his hand out of her, dragging his touch over her ass, even briefly teasing her asshole with his wet fingers. He wipes her own arousal off on her hip. “I don’t trust you not to be trouble. When I’m finished, you won’t be. It will hurt, but you will endure. Do you understand?”

Thayet drags in a breath, forces herself to let it out slowly. Her fingers dig into the edge of the handholds. The pain from being smacked is already fading, gone before it can do its job, the drop-off already winding frustration around in her belly like knotted string.

“I understand, sir.” 

The next time he hits her, it’s _harsh_. She feels it as much as she hears it, and she cries out, an immediate panic response flooding through her nervous system. He hits her again before she has time to react, and again, switching sides every time, setting a rhythm. The pain is a pulse that rattles her bones. Maker, it’s been so long since the hurting has _helped_ , since it’s been her choice, Solas’s hand is steady and heavy and it drowns everything else out. She can’t hear his voice anymore, or her own thoughts, or her own _breathing_ , not when her body is spending its energy on the stinging from her hips to her thighs.

She’s probably loud. Thayet’s never been very quiet unless it’s part of a game, and Solas hadn’t told her to keep quiet before he started. The feeling of noise is in her throat but never reaches her ears. She feels herself sweat as if it’s on someone else’s skin.

Thayet doesn’t so much sink into subspace as fall, ungracefully, into the depths of it. It used to take more than a harsh spanking to get her all the way there, though it never stopped giving her a bit of a high. The pain stops being pain, turns into a hum on her skin, a comforting sort of numbness. She’s unaware of it when Solas stops spanking her, and she’s vaguely aware of his hands trailing up over her spine. She’s too relaxed to shudder.

“--- _Thayet_.” Solas crouches in front of the sawhorse, guiding her into eye contact with a hand on her chin. His thumb swipes over her mouth, slipping briefly over her tongue. He’s hard to read, serious but calm. “Red or green? —-I won’t continue unless you answer me.” He slips his thumb back out of her mouth and cradles her cheek.

The answer comes without hesitation, though it first has to push through her cloudy mind. “Green. You’re okay.”

He presses a quick, gentle kiss to her mouth, caressing her cheek.

It’s his last moment of gentleness before he stands. The sawhorse puts her level with his hips. His boxer briefs are plain black, one of the buttons barely hanging on. The outline of his erection is begging her to touch, but the order of _you will touch only when I instruct you to_ echoes around the walls of her head. She idly licks her lips (have they gone dry? She can’t tell), mesmerized by the shape of it, hungry in a better way. They’d fucked so quickly last time she hadn’t known the shape of him except for the way he filled her cunt.

“Good girl. You won’t be trouble now, will you?” 

“No, sir.”

“I have some concerns about what you said earlier.” Solas cradles her chin in one hand, traces her lips with the other. “That I would be _lucky_ if you sucked my cock. As if you would have a choice if you were being _good_.”

“I want—-”

“That wasn’t a question.”

He pushes two fingers into her mouth, pushing them firmly over her tongue and forcing her jaw open. He tastes like _cunt_ , rubbing her own pussy onto her tongue and encouraging her to swallow it, open-mouthed and moaning. “Good girls suck cock when it’s offered. Are you a good girl?”

Thayet whimpers and tries to nod, salivating around his fingers. He slides them back, adds another, stuffing her mouth and encouraging her to stick out her tongue. The new ache in her jaw puts another rush of heat between her thighs.

“How good…?” Solas experimentally slides in further, his long, beautiful fingers testing her throat. He waits for her reaction, still while Thayet’s instincts kick in, her nostrils flaring and letting the intrusion stay for long, light-headed seconds until she can’t stop herself from gagging.

He releases her, wiping her own saliva on her cheek while she coughs. “Someone’s used that throat before, haven’t they? Leave your tongue out, there’s a good girl.”

He finally ( _finally_ ) takes out his cock. It’s long, just thick enough that she could fit her fingers around it, smooth and hard as a rock, except for one prominent vein that runs along the underside. Thayet whimpers when he rubs the velvety head over her tongue, the salty precome activating some primal thing in the back of her brain.

The _groan_ he lets out when he sinks fully into her mouth seems to come right from his belly. Thayet echoes it without thinking, vibrating around him. Her jaw is slack, eagerly presented for fucking. With his hand firm and steadying on the back of her head, all she can do is flick her tongue as he thrusts in and out. She’s pleasantly overwhelmed, by his grip, by his shadow looming over her, her vision full of nothing but his pelvis and the vulnerable skin of his belly, his hips.

When he seems sure that she’s comfortably being fucked, Solas rolls his hips until the head of his cock pushes at her throat. It flutters around him, squeezing hard around him. Thayet manages to swallow once before she gags.

Solas immediately pulls back. His cock is wet, leaving her face sloppy when he takes it from her mouth. Holding the base, he smacks her cheek with the head, quick and disciplinary. “You’ll need to do better than that. Breathe in and swallow me again, there’s a good girl…”

He waits for her to breathe before stuffing his cock back inside, this time immediately invading her throat. Thayet holds it, squirming on the sawhorse for a few blissful, mind-numbing moments of breathlessness. She gropes for his thigh with her good hand, nails scratching over his boxer briefs, and he releases her to breathe. 

Once she catches her breathe, letting herself swallow with her mouth shut, she opens up again with a shapeless noise. Solas keeps his hands on the back of her head and the base of his cock while he fucks her mouth, using her tongue, pressing into her throat until she’s flying, releasing her when she grips his thigh, rinse, repeat. Thayet loses track of time, languishing in a mindset where nothing matters except _this_ —-

Solas tightens his hand on her hair and pulls halfway out of her mouth before he comes, filling her mouth. His cock pulses on her tongue (and she loves that, she loves the way it looks and feels, it makes her _moan_ ), his hand making up for the part of him that isn’t inside of something warm and welcoming. Thayet is vaguely aware of the mess, come dripping down her chin, swallowing with his twitching, beautiful cock pressing down and using her.

Her jaw aches when he finally pulls out, leaving her to pant and finally bow her head. She’s alone — for a minute or a year, she couldn’t actually say — until he returns, again crouched in front of her.

He murmurs something while he cradles her cheek. She thinks at first that she’s just too far gone to understand Trade. His soft touches are back, lovingly wiping her face clean with a cool, damp wipe. It takes far too long for her to realize he’s speaking an entirely different language, the slick Elvhen sound mixing with the radio static in her mind as if one is made of the other.

“You’ve done well,” he says softly, kissing her hair. “I’m going to move you. Are you going to let me?”

Thayet nods, though perhaps she hasn’t done so at all. Her heartbeat has taken over her body, and she feels as if she’s rocking along with it.

“I need you to say ‘yes’.”

She swallows hard, groping for her own voice and dragging it to the surface. “Yes, sir.”

Solas guides her to sit up, her sweat making her bare skin stick to the leather as it peels away. Her knees go out from underneath her the moment she tries to rest weight on them. He’s quick to pick her up, his arm sweeping under her knees. In the moment she’s aloft, the floating sensation of subspace feels like actual flight. A strange giggle escapes her mouth. She couldn’t have swallowed it if she tried.

The bed feels infinitely softer now, sheets cold against her aching backside. Her arms fall where they will, carelessly splayed, her legs following the direction of Solas’s hands as he guides them apart. He says something else in Elvhen (she assumes Elvhen, maybe it’s Orlesian? It’s something, it’s soft, it’s nice, it slides around her cunt as well as his tongue) before burying his mouth against her in earnest.

An hour ago, she would have made the effort to sit up and watch him, to catch glimpses of his tongue on her pussy, his fingers holding her open. She’d started the night so badly wanting to see Solas’s head bobbing between her thighs and the look on his face when she came on his tongue.

Now, she can barely see the ceiling, her eyes blissfully unfocused. His fingers slide into her, filling her until her soft walls are stretched tight.

It’s quieter this time when she comes. He stays there through every wave, until her soft whimpers turn into something more pained. Pressing something that sounds like an apology against her belly, he carefully pulls his hand away, her cunt too sensitive to let him go without a violent twitch.

When his weight is gone from the bed, Thayet rolls onto her front. Solas returns again, laying beside her lengthwise. His hand finds her ass again, this time slicked with lotion to soothe her aches. 

He nuzzles her forehead, a gesture that she returns. He has such a handsome face, angular, a little dimple in his chin, a dusting of freckles over his nose. She wonders what color his hair would be if he had any.

Thayet catches hold of his shirt with the clumsy fingers of her metal hand, holding him still to press a kiss to his mouth. “Thank you for this,” she murmurs, her words soft and messy.

“It was my pleasure.”

They lay there for a long time. It’s the first tolerable silence she’s had in a year. Solas rubs her back and her thighs, takes special care with the back of her knees, makes sure that she stretches her arms.

When it’s finally time to leave, Thayet is comfortably back in the real world, alert and hydrated and relaxed. The club outside their door is as alive as ever — moreso, perhaps, for the later hour. Solas offers to take her home, and when she explains that she’s there with friends, he offers instead to stay with her until they emerge from the back rooms.

He sees her to the door when it’s time. Leaves when she does. _There’s no point in staying without you_ , he says unprompted, shrugging.

Thayet gives him her number before they part ways, and she lingers on the sidewalk, watching until he turns a corner and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUNMD8EgV0s


	5. MY HEART IS IN THE FUTURE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thayet and Solas go out to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this one, but a note that I've tweaked the fic's summary and taken off some of the tags to keep it from appearing as a WALL OF TAGS when browsing. I also changed Thayet's sponsor from Carver to Cullen; using Carver was a last-minute choice while I was writing and then I realized I might want to use him in Kirkwall instead, so I switched them.
> 
> Hang tight with me, chapter six will have contract negotiation and explicit sex. There should be less downtime between 5 and 6 than there was between 4 and 5.

_Hello. We met last night at Inquisition. It was refreshing to be so honest with a stranger, but I would like us to be less than strangers, if you would. I'm afraid I can't talk much today, as I've put off work that needs to be done for tomorrow and slept in far too late. I would like to buy you lunch. Tomorrow? I'll be working all day, unfortunately, but I have a couple of free hours starting at 1pm. At the Gull and Lantern, perhaps? It's a little old fashioned, but I go there often. I think you would enjoy it._

_Let me know._

_Solas_

"Lunch isn't exactly a date, is it?"

Thayet looks to Dorian for the answer. He's sunken down low in the bathtub, a warm washcloth over his eyes and a cushion under his neck. He might be asleep, lulled by the steam, but he makes a low rumbling noise.

"Lunch is catching up with a high school friend you want an excuse to run away from. Lunch is a _job interview_ ," he says, gesturing and flicking bubbly bath water at her. "And frankly I think he's undervaluing your talents."

" _We_ have lunch all the time, Dorian."

"Yes, my lovely friend, but you don't deep throat me first."

Thayet bites back a laugh, pressing her forehead to her knee to hide it. 

It's a lazy Sunday for the both of them. Dorian had been barely capable of speech when they'd returned home the night before, let alone cognizant enough to hear how Thayet's night had gone. They’d woken up long after Bull had already gone to work, equally sore and relaxed.

Dorian’s bathrobe is nestled snugly under Thayet’s as they hang on the bathroom door, purple over black. The room is big enough for Bull, so there’s more than enough room for a couple of humans. Thayet has a pile of her skin care products on the counter, leaving a little free space for her phone on the white linoleum. She has her foot propped up on a step stool, sitting on the closed toilet to shave her legs, washing the barely-there hairs off in the sink. 

Solas’s text takes up the screen and then some, disappearing under the edge. It’s charming, the idea of a man who calls a woman he barely kissed before fucking her _refreshing_ and signs his text messages. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m still good enough at giving head to warrant dinner,” she says dryly, shifting to shave the underside of her thigh. Dorian rarely speaks about sex in detail with anyone but her (save for Bull himself, of course). These talks always feel like _getting away with something_ in the best way.

“I’ve met _all_ your recent partners, remember. Nothing but quality oral sex would subdue some of those people.”

Thayet snorts. “You can just say Rainier. He won’t appear in the linen closet if you say his name too loudly.”

“ _Ugh_.” Dorian’s brow furrows so dramatically that it crinkles the washcloth. “So. This horribly trite lunch. Are you going?”

“Absolutely. It’s probably better that it’s not _a date_. Neither of us are ready for it.” She shrugs with one shoulder, keeping her other hand steady. “I think he’s recently divorced or something. I’ll suck his dick again if he keeps making me come as hard as last night.”

“ _Maker_ , you’re crass.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

It’s been over a year since the last time she was on a real _date._

Not that this is a date. It _isn’t_ a date. Solas would have said it was a date, and they’d both made their feelings about it clear on Saturday. (Had they? They definitely had, she remembers it.) It’s just lunch. With a new friend. That she wants to fuck again. 

It’s not that this feels foreign; she’s just out of practice, off kilter. The high from Sunday had worn off in late afternoon, leaving only the hollowness behind that had driven her to the Inquisition in the first place. Monday morning sees her left more alone than she's comfortable with, with Bull at work and Dorian gone for his first real day at work. She didn't have a tremor in her hands last time she was dating. Thayet finds herself nostalgic for a lingering soreness or a bruise she could press her fingers against, something that would pull her focus away from the hunger in her gut.

 _It's temporary_ , she tells herself as she gives herself extra time to do her makeup, picks out a pair of shoes without laces. _It just takes time._

She goes heavier than last time on the makeup and less obvious on the clothing (a neutral blue midi-dress that buttons down and flat espadrilles). It’s still summer-warm outside, and in Kirkwall that means bare legs and updos for anyone who doesn’t want to steam alive on the pavement.

The Gull and Lantern turns out to be a comfortable walk away from Kirkwall University. Dorian had started there the week before as a research assistant; she’s seen photos, but they don’t do the area justice. The University is just south of the Garden, in a part of Hightown where the Viscount’s Keep is visible from any street corner. The sleek stone buildings are punctuated with high glass windows that reflect as clearly as mirrors in good weather. The cafe itself is all red brick and high ceilings, a little too old fashioned and a little too far away from campus to interest students. 

She almost doesn’t recognize him at first. The context is so different, she doesn’t realize until she sees Solas that she’s looking for the same image as before, open shirt and moody club lighting casting a neon pall on his skin.

Instead, the elven man waiting for her outside the Gull and Lantern is achingly mundane. His shoes are old and worn. His earthy green cardigan has pens tucked into the pocket. There’s a cord hanging around his neck, double-looped, the end of it disappearing underneath his soft, off-white shirt. He looks like someone with a preferred armchair at the library, favorite authors he prescribes to his friends like medicine, this one for melancholy, that one for inspiration.

He smiles when he sees her and a warmth blooms in her chest.

“There you are. You came.” He sounds surprised, relieved. It seems for a moment that he’ll pull her in, or touch her, but he just tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Of course I did. Did you think I wouldn’t?” Thayet motions to the door and encourages him to lead her inside. 

“I suppose it was a silly thought.”

It’s busy, a late lunch rush, too noisy in line to really talk. The girl behind the counter recognizes Solas enough that she doesn’t even ask him what he wants. Solas is polite, tips well, gently brushes Thayet’s hand aside when she tries to pay for her own food. He really does have beautiful hands, she can say that more objectively now that she's fully sober, masculine but elegant. 

It's when they find a table in a corner (a little shady, too far from the windows or the bathroom to be in high demand) that they can finally settle and _talk_.

Which they both try to do at the same time.

"Did you find this place easily---"

"So when you said---"

Solas cuts himself off, but Thayet politely gestures for him to continue. At least small talk won't be hard, with both of them so ready to speak. What a strange thing to be relieved about.

Thayet clears her throat and starts again. “So when you said _less than strangers_ , I have to admit that I’m not sure what that means. —-Not that I’m not glad you texted, I did give you my number, but I… I actually don’t know what impression I gave you, when I did that. Which I’m realizing just now, and feel very silly about.”

Jumping right in seems the only fair way to do this. If either of them get too comfortable — if _she_ gets too comfortable — she might trick herself into thinking she’s ready for more than she is. It takes him aback, his hands stilling around his mug. (He takes his coffee decaf, with so much French vanilla creamer it might have been easier for him to just drink out of the carafe, hold the java. She would be stunned if there was any coffee taste to it at all.)

"I…" Solas is quieter when he's nervous, she notes, it lives mostly in the furrow of his brow than the set of his mouth. "I had hoped we both wanted the same thing. If that's untrue, I apologize."

"I don't know if it's true or not. I'm not sure what you want." (She's fucking this up. She should have just called. Is it rude to leave without eating? Is it rude to just fling herself into the harbor?)

"We both made it very clear that we aren't ready to date. But it's undeniable that we had a con---" He cuts himself off with a _hmph_ before the word _connection_ can work its way out of his mouth. "Compatibility. Our desires are complementary. I had hoped we would do that again. More than once."

Thayet breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Then, we’re on the same page.” She watches his hands relax, rest on the table. He seems so much more comfortable with stillness than she is that she’s struck with a horrible envy. “The problem, such that it is… is that I’m in a strange place right now. I was a little loopy on Saturday —- which was _very_ nice, and exactly what I needed — and…” She spreads her hands.

“And…” Solas is watching her, brow still furrowed, intently watching her lips as if he’s afraid of missing a word. “...you need.. —-I apologize, I don’t know where this is going.”

(Thayet briefly contemplates just sliding under the table and hoping he forgets she’s there.)

“I’m kind of intense,” she says impulsively. “And when—- _before_ , I was in an open relationship, and casual dating was easy. I had a primary for _years_. But even then, things would start really casual with other people and I am…” Thayet lets out a long, frustrated breath, her metal fingers tapping too loudly on the table. “I’m _very_ easy to get close to. I don’t know how to keep things casual right now. I _want_ to. But I think an open-ended thing would just…” She shrugs helplessly. “I don’t really trust myself with that level of ambiguity right now.”

The silence that follows is as uncomfortable as an overheated pool in summer. It’s too much, too soon, and she’s grateful she hasn’t really eaten lunch before digging herself into such a deep, awkward hole. It’s probably better this way, ruining something before it has a chance to go sour. It was stupid to give him her number, foolish to answer the text, absolutely _bone-headed_ to show up here at all and _excessively_ imbecilic to go off like some kind of out-of-control—- like an impulsive—- like an _idiot_ —-

 _Maker_ , what she wouldn’t give for a philter right now, to drown in it until she feels invincible again. Just the thought of it sends a tremor racing through her bones, like finally noticing a car alarm that’s been going off for an hour. She needs a punch in the gut. She needs a drink. She needs a _fucking cigarette_ —-

The beating on the table stops. She looks down to see Solas’s hand tightly gripping her metal one, pinning her fingers together.

She looks up, expecting admonishment or disappointment. Instead, there’s a softness in his expression, and in the way he says, “Neither do I. Truthfully, I didn’t know what to say when I came here. I hadn’t thought beyond simply being around you again.”

Thayet huffs with laughter, running her good hand over her face. “So we’re both like this.”

“I think that may be the case, yes.”

Thayet tucks her hand into her lap, hiding her tremor below the table, her mind comforted where her body isn’t. She’s still distracted by the sudden nagging craving, smelling the heady ozone scent of lyrium that wasn’t there a moment ago. She concentrates on his face instead, the straightness of his nose, the dimple in his chin.

“I still appreciate lunch, though,” she says, an olive branch if there ever was one. “And I’m sure we’ll see each other at Inquisition again, yes? So, we’re friendly acquaintances. There have been worse things.”

Solas reluctantly lets go of her hand, resting back in his chair. He looks as content with the situation as she feels (so, not at all), but he smiles, and nods, and says, “I think that’s the best thing we could do. If we happen to see each other, then it can’t be helped.”

She nods. “It can’t be helped.”

“No, it cannot.”

“There’s no rush.”

“None at all.”

“I probably won’t even go back until next week, anyway.”

“Neither will I,” he agrees.

“We might not even fuck each other even if we’re both there,” Thayet says optimistically. “We really are making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”

“It’s all very dramatic,” Solas adds. 

“Horribly. We’re being very silly. We should talk about something else, like the weather,” she insists.

“It’s very pleasant outside today,” he says helpfully.

“It really is.”

Either hours later, the heavy base of club music is thumping against the wall as Solas rests his head on her shoulder, comfortably heavy once he’s slipped out of her. He smells like sweat and her own perfume, and he fits easily in her arms.

Thayet lets out a long sigh.

“Maybe we need to re-evaluate a few things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_t1VOe0IhE


	6. IF IT'S NOT RIGHT THEN I'LL KNOW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a quick disclaimer for this chapter: it's short, about half of the negotiation is here, and chapter 7 will have more explicit sexy stuff. 
> 
> I didn't mean for this one to take 2 months. I know only 4 people have this bookmarked and few people will read it, but y'all have left really sweet comments so I want to explain myself. When I started writing this story, the grief over the Warden's death was baked in as a big part of it alongside the ex-Templar/lyrium addiction stuff. But the reason this chapter took so long is that my wife almost died at the end of July (not COVID, but still very serious, obviously) and it's been difficult to do anything creative, let alone write a fic so heavily featuring the death of the main character's romantic partner.
> 
> I may end up rewriting the earlier chapters to take Aeryk out. I may not. For now, I like this and I want to keep writing it as-is, and I gave myself an "out" at the end of the chapter with Cole. The plan is to tackle Thayet's memories and feelings about him when I'm more ready to handle those feelings for _myself_. I'm going to write chapter 7, and if at the end of that one I feel like that's still the plan, then I'll just move forward. If that's something I just really cannot deal with, I'll probably rewrite from the ground up, repost all 7 revised chapters at once, and leave this version up for posterity. If that happens, I'll post one last "chapter" with the update so anyone who has it bookmarked gets the notification.
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me. My wife is home and safe now and going through a difficult recovery, but she _will_ recover, and I'm lucky for that. It's just a little too fresh for me to be dealing with those feelings in fiction right now.

"You are the death of my convictions, it seems."

He says it into the side of her neck, kissing a bruise he'd left there with his teeth. The dull ache of it leaves her delighted for her future self, for that little bit of comforting pain she can use to revive her sense memories of _right now_ just by pressing on it. Solas twists her hair around his hand to hold it out of the way so he can kiss further up her neck, lips brushing over her hairline.

“It’s all on me, then. What a terrible burden.” Thayet lets out a long sigh before reluctantly ( _Maker, so reluctantly_ ) easing Solas off of her, despite his quiet noise of protest. “We’re in trouble.”

“I’m afraid we might be, yes.”

Solas turns away, disposing of the condom and pulling his underwear back on. Thayet steals his sweater (much more comfortable for lounging around in bed than her dress) and sits back down, cross legged. 

Neither of them had _done_ much of anything more than the bare minimum after lunch; Solas had gone back to work, wherever that was, and Thayet had wandered around a Hightown park, chain smoking and checking her phone every few minutes for a text from Solas that never comes.

She’d meant to go home, do something productive, distract herself from all this. Masturbate, maybe, or text back one of the dozen people waiting to hear back from her. Most of her old friends had texted back, asking how she was, trying to meet up again, but the thought of getting together and repeating the same stories over and over again is already exhausting. They’re all _good friends_. It’s an infinite supply of sympathy and shoulders to cry on, a prerequisite of vulnerability before things can get back to normal, soft and sorry noises for what’s effectively young widowhood.

It warms her heart. It makes her want to throw things. It’s _tiring_. 

The afternoon had slipped well away into night before Thayet realized she’d just been _waiting_. The club opened at nine — early, you know, for the weeknight crowd — and by nine-fifteen, Solas had been pulling off her dress. 

Now, it’s the gentle high from coming that’s staving off the panic of a soft boundary completely torn through. _Not until next week_. They’re both terrible liars. It’s awful. It’s charming. 

(She can’t stop staring at that one single freckle on his collar. How many other people have had the chance to notice that one freckle?)

“We need some ground rules,” she says, trying to be practical. “Some concrete boundaries.”

“It would be safer that way,” Solas agrees, setting down across from her. “And kinder, in the long run.”

“Yes.”

“So…”

They both sit and wait, watching the other’s expression. Thayet taps her fingers on her knee. Solas resettles once, then again. He stares openly, in a way that would have been rude if he hadn’t just been fucking her. (Does he even realize how intently he stares, as if she’s the only real thing and the rest of the room is just a backdrop?) 

The silence stretches until it’s unbearable.

“You know, I was a full time sub for about a month one time,” she finally says, blurting it out just to fill the air with _something_.

It shakes Solas out of whatever thought he’d retreated into. He sits up a little straighter. “I beg your pardon?”

“I hired a Dominatrix after I lost my arm. I was—-” Mm. No. Too personal. “The details aren’t important. My point is…” _What is the point, find the point—-_ “My point is we had a contract. There was a start date, and an end date, and rules that kept me from developing _feelings_. Not that you and I should jump into some full time, live in depravity, and Vivienne and I had very strict rules about not _fucking_ , but—-”

Solas gradually smiles while she speaks, crooked and wolfish. “But you want a sex contract.”

It’s too hard not to kiss him when he makes that face, so she doesn’t even try not to. Thayet crawls forward, half in his lap when she kisses his mouth, grinning against his lips. “Mm. I think I might want a sex contract. It’ll be easier to stick to if it’s written down. We can just skip all the romantic nonsense and get right to the good parts…” She distracts herself with another kiss, nipping until he sighs and lets her slide her tongue into his mouth.

Solas grips her jaw and breaks the kiss by pushing her back half an inch, holding her in place. “It _has_ been a while since I’ve had a sub for more than a night,” he admits, brushing his lips over her nose. “I have never liked one enough to draw up a contract.”

“You like _me_ enough,” she counters impulsively.

He laughs, low and hungry and pressing it onto her tongue when he kisses her. “You are stunning,” he murmurs, “and difficult not to like.”

“Mm, I try.”

She crawls fully into his lap, cradling his jaw in both hands and sighing into another kiss. Solas readily touches her, guiding her to settle with his hands on her hips. She’d been too lazy to put her panties back on, leaving her ass bare and easy to touch (which he does, reaching down to squeeze it with both hands).

“Having the basics before we leave wouldn’t _hurt_ ,” Solas adds, lowering his mouth to her neck. “We don’t want a full time situation, perhaps we should work on more of an… on-call basis.”

Thayet nods a little, nuzzling him. His grip on her ass is soft and curious, fingers brushing over her thigh and between her legs, where she’s still wet and sensitive. She shudders. “We’re allowed to be friends, but we should make romantic gestures off limits,” she suggests. “Like… mm. No gifts that aren’t in the context of our sexual relationship. No going out to dinner.”

Solas chuckles, leaning back to catch her eye. “ _Dinner_?”

“ _Yes_. Dinner and then sex is a date,” she insists, sitting back on her heels. “Lunch should be fine. _Perhaps_ breakfast, if we didn’t have an overnight the night before.”

“Overnights seem inadvisable.” Solas rests his weight on one hand, keeping the other braced on her hip. “Perhaps it’s best to ban those altogether.”

“I agree. First it’s overnights, then we’re leaving clothes and toothbrushes and it’s a whole relationship after that.” 

Thayet fidgets. The rush of fucking has gone out of the air, leaving them cuddly but sticky with drying sweat. Eventually she leans in to kiss his mouth before climbing out of his lap.

They’d found the same room again, the dungeon-esque atmosphere of deep, lurid colors and windowless walls a cushion between them and the outside world. She leaves Solas for water, coming back with two bottles and a small packet of cookies that had been the mini fridge. 

“Do we want to keep coming back _here_?” Solas asks, opening the top of the water with a soft _crack_. He moved while she was gone, leaning up against the pillows. “I certainly don’t mind the view, but—-”

“But the cover charge will add up,” she finishes.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Well.” Thayet pops a cookie into her mouth and offers the bag to Solas, who takes the next one. “My roommates certainly won’t mind having you around. I wouldn’t call my place _impressive_ , but my friends know how to mind their own business.” _Mostly_.

“Mm.” Solas’s mouth tightens, likely at the prospect of abandoning the soundproof walls of the _Inquisition_ for a regular bedroom with other people far too close. “I live alone. If we decide that this place is too much for the night, I suppose you could come home with me.”

Thayet cocks her eyebrows. “Well, don’t put yourself out.”

The tightness of anxiety fades from his expression almost immediately, replaced by an apologetic look. “That’s not how I meant it. I haven’t had anyone in my home for… years. I am not very good at sharing my space anymore, I’m afraid.”

Thayet softens. She’d forgotten for a while about his ex — she keeps wanting to assume _ex-wife_ , but she doesn’t _really_ know, and it seems unkind to ask when he hasn’t offered. Perhaps if she’d gone back to live in the place in Ostwick she’d shared with Aeryk, she would be more reluctant to let Solas in, too. It isn’t as if Solas’s ex is _dead_ , but being alone is being alone, isn’t it?

“We don’t have to rush it,” she says gently. “Let’s plan on coming back here for the foreseeable future. It’s cheaper than a motel room.” She eats another cookie and offers the last one to Solas, washing it down with water.

Clearing her throat, she continues, “Obviously we’re not exclusive. We should be free to see whomever we like.”

Solas nods, happy to move on to the next subject. “Of course. Though it should go without saying that we’re using protection with everyone, regardless.”

“We should probably tell one another if we get into any sort of serious relationship.”

“It’s probably best if we don’t ask about each other’s professional lives, either.”

Thayet chuckles. If he doesn’t ask, she can’t admit that she’s unemployed, can she? “You’re right, we shouldn’t. We don’t need to be ruining our booty calls with work talk.”

Finishing off her drink, she sets the bottle and the crumpled cookie bag on the nightstand. It’s been a longer day than she realized, fatigue tugging at her edges. They can’t stay here overnight, of course, even if it wasn’t against the rules, but she isn’t ready to go yet.

Crawling back to Solas, she slumps down onto the bed, resting her head in his lap. He’s quick to smooth down her hair, fingertips brushing over her cheek.

“This just gets to be about having fun,” she says, nuzzling his thigh. “I have a feeling we both need it. Let’s meet soon? We can go over the details together. I haven’t had a consistent Dom in ages, I missed it.” Her fingers trace the outline of bones in his knee.

“We’ll meet here, then, on Wednesday.” Thayet can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Nine-thirty. Bring me a list of things you do and don’t like, things you’re willing to try. We’ll go from there.”

“You say the nicest things.”

It’s the witching hour when she wanders home. The street is quiet, the sky clear, the moon almost full. She counts five dollar bills into the cabbie’s hand and watches him drive around the corner.

The air is emptier than usual. Her dress feels heavy. For a while she just stands there on the sidewalk, letting the night air sink into her skin.

“ _Wary, worrying, wandering. What if he finds his way in? What if I forget?_ ”

The soft voice makes her jump, sharply turning toward the sound. She stumbles back a step when she nearly crashes into a figure that, she would swear, hadn’t been there just a moment ago. A man — maybe a teenage boy? — all in shades of brown and gray, sickly pale as a spectre, his eyes obscured by the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

“Maker’s _tits_ , you scared me.” Thayet takes another step back, though being so close hardly seems to be bothering him. She should have heard him coming close. She hasn’t gotten _that_ rusty. (Probably.) “I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry.”

“Nobody sees me unless I want them to,” he says plainly. “You won’t forget.”

Thayet frowns. “I beg your pardon?”

“You won’t forget,” he repeats. “But it doesn’t have to hurt. Aeryk wouldn’t want you to. You don’t have to remember the hurt.”

“I’m sorry, who—-”

Thayet carefully lets herself in, quietly depositing her shoes by the door, softly creeping down the hallway. 

There’s a lightness in her feet as she undresses, brushes her teeth, crawls into bed. She falls asleep on her stomach, thinking of nothing: no anxiety, no shivering, no nervousness. Just the knowledge that the morning will come, and the day after it, and the night again when it’s over, and no reason to fear a moment of it.


	7. FINAL NOTE

Good news, everyone! I was inspired to do a full rewrite rather than go forward with this version of the fic. Thanks for sticking with me so far.

The new version, TIME AND HEARTS, is right over here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448805


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